


Quando quando

by ohnoesidontknow



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Form for the Fibonacci Sequence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 13:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16096994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohnoesidontknow/pseuds/ohnoesidontknow
Summary: Drunk and disillusioned DarkKnightRises!Bruce Wayne meets ManofSteel!waiter!Clark Kent in a pub.Hilarity and awfully cheesy romance ensue.





	Quando quando

**Author's Note:**

> First encounters.

The pub was loud from the lumberjacks and fishermen gathered around the table, cheering on the contestants of the drinking game.

“C’mon, dago, drink it up!” shouted a man from the back of the crowd and the proposition met with enthusiastic wolf whistling.

The man sitting at the head of the table reached towards the shots with a quaking hand. For a moment tense silence fell on the room as everyone watched the contestant taking the glass of tequila. Although it took two tries, he managed to rose it to the general direction of his mouth and downed it in one gulp. Then he hunched forward with a weak hiccup, slamming the glass down onto table among the other empty twenty-one. He blinked up with a mildly smug and strongly intoxicated look at his rival, who sat on the opposite end of the table, half asleep, leaning onto his elbow.

The men cheered, a few dollars were exchanged much to Chrissy’s delight, who returned to the bar waving ten dollars victoriously.

“Who would have guessed that a small man like him can handle his liquor so well,” Clark wondered, shaking his head as she settled beside him, counting her winnings. 

“Meh,” Chrissy said once she finished counting, tucking her money into the pocket of her apron. “My old man was the same. Thin like a toothpick and he could drink his weight in gin.”

They watched as the other contestant, Hank, a bulky fisherman, much to many locals disappointment, tried to raise his shot and spilled it all over the table, slipping down from his chair to the floor with a loud thud.

“You’re so sour because you bet on Hank, aren’t you?” Chrissy asked, turning to Clark with a smug smile.

“I never bet,” he replied curtly, his eyes still on the contestant’s table.

“Then why all the scowling, hm?” Chrissy asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Because I’m not exactly thrilled at the prospect of spending the next two hours cleaning up vomit,” Clark said matter-of-factly, his gaze still on the contestants.

“Oh, come on, don’t be such a spoilsport!” Chrissy punched him in his shoulder. Clark didn’t show any sign of feeling it. “Hank has been an alcoholic since the day he was born, he can hold his damn liquor– Oh fuck.” Chrissy cringed with disgust as Hank threw up and passed out on the floor. Clark finally turned to her with an eyebrow raised.

“Can he?”

“Shut up, I’m bringing the mops,” she sighed with resignation, passing by John on her way to the staff’s room in the back of the pub.

“Alright gentlemen, we’re closing!” John hollered, stepping forward from the beer pump. “Make sure to take your personal belongings. We’re opening at six tomorrow!”

There were a few disappointed grunts, but eventually everyone got going – even lumberjacks and fishermen knew better than angering John Winker, who had the meanest left hook in Ketchikan and who, most importantly, had the finest ale imported from Nova Scotia.

When everyone left, save for Hank lying on the floor and the proud winner of the contest snoring on the table, John turned to Clark.

“I’ll take Hank home, I’m sure his wife’s worried to death. Can you two take care of this mess?” he asked, looking around and cataloguing the damage in his pub with a tired huff.

“Sure, chief.” Clark nodded, and John patted his shoulder with a grateful smile. He cleaned his hands in a dishtowel, then he went to Hank, threw the large body over his shoulder and picked him up with an ease that made people question his age. Although he didn’t ask, Clark opened the door for him and helped him laying Hank on the backseats of his truck without a word.

One thing John liked about Clark was that he was always willing to give a helping hand and he never expected anything in return. It was a rare quality, one that not many people had those days. It was actually the reason why John employed Clark in the first place despite his complete lack of experience in catering, not to talk about his complete lack of any official documents.

“Poor old Hank.” John chuckled, hopping onto the driver’s seat. “Still can’t accept that he’s not a young lad anymore.”

Clark smirked, closing the door for John.

“What should I do with the other one?” he asked, raising his chin in the direction of the pub as John fumbled with his keys.

“Just throw him on the couch in the back room, let him sleep it off there. If there’s any trouble, you know where I keep my rifle,” John said with a conspirational wink and Clark smiled in return.

“I don’t think I’ll need it, but thank you, John.”

“I’ll be back in an hour,” he promised before driving off to the dark highway, leaving Clark in the parking lot illuminated by the cheerful neon lights of Cassidy Pub.

 

“Sir. Sir. _Sir.”_

“J’st five more minutes, Alfred,” the drunkard slurred, covering his head with his arms on the table to escape the finger poking at his face.

“He’s alive,” Chrissy announced with an amused smirk, while Clark systematically arranged the dirty glasses on a tray. “What did John say, what should we do with him?”

“He told me to get him on the couch and let him rest there,” Clark said, carrying five trays in his hands with his usual perfect grace and balance to the dishwasher.

Sometimes Chrissy wondered if Clark was really a human and not a vampire. Or a gross alien in human form on an undercover mission on Earth. Chrissy unwittingly snorted at the absurd thought. Clark blinked at her with innocent blue eyes from behind the counter.

She schooled her features and cleared her throat.

“Shouldn’t we call his relatives?”

“Did you find his wallet?” Clark asked, closing the dishwasher.

“He’s _dirty,”_ she said and then frowned. “And stinks like a distillery. There’s no way that I’m going to touch him.”

“You’ve already touched him,” Clark pointed out, getting around the counter, but Chrissy only shrugged.

“With one finger. And you know, five second rule.”

“That only applies to food.”

Chrissy rolled her eyes.

“Smartass.” She clicked her tongue. “Fine. Let’s make a deal: I clean up after Hank and you deal with the hobo.”

“Always a pleasure doing business with you,” Clark said cheerily, pretending a mildly genuine wince when Chrissy elbowed him passing by the counter and grabbed the mop.

For the first time that night Clark looked at the stranger. He was scrawny, his baggy black sweater way too big for his frame, his back was crumped as if the weight of the entire world was on his shoulders. And yes, Chrissy was right, it must have been some time ago the last time he had a shower. He didn’t seem to be a dangerous man, just an average guy, who’d been through lots of bad days recently. However, Clark did not want to take any chances, so first, before he did anything, he checked him with his x-ray vision.

He found no weapons, not even a phone, a key or a wallet. The man had nothing with him.

 _He must have been mugged,_ Clark thought when he eventually approached him.

“Hello,” he waved at the man hesitantly. He heard Chrissy chuckle behind him, but he tried again nonetheless, “Hello, sir. Is everything alright?” He stepped closer and nearly jumped when the man snorted. “Bloody hell he’s wasted,” Clark murmured, shaking his head disbelievingly, then he bent down to his task.

Although he had already seen the man didn’t have a wallet, for the sake of keeping up appearances he also had to check it with the traditional human methodologies, no matter how much the sight of the dirty sweater made him want to cringe.

He took a deep breath and slid his hand into the sweater’s kangaroo pocket.

“Empty,” he announced, snatching his hand away quickly, as if he touched burning coal.

“Did you check his pants’ pockets too?” Chrissy asked, who had already finished moping the floors and watched him with apparent delight, leaning to the counter.

Clark furrowed his eyebrows.

“What kind of man keeps his wallet in his pants’ pockets?”

“Well, apparently men like you, since you also keep it there,” Chrissy reminded him, much to his dismay. “Chop-chop, up to the task, sweetie. I did my part of the deal, now it’s your turn,” she sing-songed with sadistic cheer. She watched as Clark made a face and then dipped his hand into the baggy cargo pants’ pocket.

“Empty,” he said and then, because Chrissy was still watching much to his chagrin, he went to the other side and checked the other pocket too– And Clark’s eyebrows raised to his hairline in surprise, because there was something in the pocket. Something warm and more or less the shape of– maybe some kind of a flashlight–?

“Hey,” the man said sleepily, propping up his chin on the top of his folded arms. Chrissy started screaming and the only reason Clark didn’t scream too was because he was paralysed with shock. The man’s eyes suddenly focused on Clark’s face and he squinted suspiciously. “You’re not Alfred.”

“No–?” Clark replied weakly.

Then man looked down at Clark’s hand and Clark followed his gaze. He chocked on his breath.

Of course it wasn’t a pocket.

It was his fly.

Suddenly it seemed like time froze and silence fell on the room.

Then the man looked up at Clark again.

“I’m just informing you that this– thing that you’re doing,” he waved in the direction of his crotch,” is the very definition of sexual assault, which’s punishable according to the US Code 2241-2248,” the man explained groggily, and Clark gaped like a fish.

It took him a good minute to clear his throat and to find his voice.

“I-I didn’t mean to, sir– You see, I was just looking for your wallet–”

“So you wanted to mug me?” the man asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Ye– No! No, God, no, I– we just needed your documents for identification purposes! Because you were intoxicated to the point of unconsciousness– _Sir,”_ he added for good measure, trying to get the upper-hand, holding his chin high.

He was professional. He was definitely not going to lose an argument to a drunken lecher.

The man glanced down to his crotch again and Clark realised his hand was still there.

Clark snatched it away mortified, with the speed of lightning, not giving two hoots about how inhuman the said speed was, pretences be damned. Clark was grateful he physically didn’t have the capacity to blush, because he was sure otherwise he would have been flushed to the tip of his ears.

The man, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be the least bit embarrassed.

“Well, since I’m conscious you don’t have to worry about that anymore, do you?” he said, pushing his chair back from the table to stand on surprisingly steady feet, zipping up his fly casually. “Thanks for the drinks–“ He hiccupped. “Grazie per tutto, bellissima,” he said with a theatrical bow towards Chrissy, who was just gaping at him as he waltzed to the door, humming a melody underneath his breath. “Buona notte, à domani, ragazzi!” he said, with a clumsy wave, before he saw himself out. The door hadn’t even closed behind him fully when he collapsed on the porch with a loud thud.

Chrissy and Clark glared at each other, eyes as big as saucers.

“I’ll get him on the couch,” Clark said, his voice still monotone from shock, and it was one of those rare occasions when Chrissy said nothing, but just nodded in agreement.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaand you've just read my first work on AO3. Yay!
> 
> English is not my first language, so I apologise if I made some horrendous mistakes. If the terrible grammar, the shallow vocabulary and the typos bother you, feel free to become my partner in crime aka ✿beta✿. Just send me a message / comment / smoke signal, don't know how you folks on AO3 do it...
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you liked it send me a slice of apple pie or just leave some kudos or comments.


End file.
